Faith smiled through tears of relief. “I guess. I’m not so sure what would have happened if the stage and those soldiers hadn’t come along. We’d better go and greet our passengers.”
“I expect so.” Hilda patted her cheek and turned to step back outside. Johnny’s tears subsided, and Faith laid him in a wooden playpen a traveler had made for her two months ago.
She quickly checked herself in a mirror and wiped a smudge of gunpowder from her cheek and nose. Out here there would never be a need for fancy clothes and rouged cheeks. She had only the clothes she’d come out with, other than a couple of dartless, waistless dresses she had made for herself to cover her pregnancy. She had made a few clothes for Johnny and had ordered more material by mail from Omaha.
She licked her fingers and smoothed back a few wisps of auburn hair, tucking them under the braids wound around her head, then brushed at her gray dress and walked out behind Hilda, to greet the newly arrived passengers.
She had met people from all walks of life, people of every description and occupation; but she had also known great loneliness, bitter grief, and fulfilling love and joy. Her life was filled with hard work and anticipation, always waiting for the next stage, wondering who would be on it. She was learning how to make repairs to coaches, how to hitch and unhitch teams, mend fences, and care for horses. She cooked for the drivers and passengers, even sometimes nursed one who was injured or sick.
She looked around at the ring of mountains, north, west, south, majestic bastions of the West. She thought about her freedom there, how proud she was of what she had learned and how she could fend for herself, and she realized she could not leave this place now, in spite of the dangers. Maybe someday it would fold up and die, as her father had suggested, in his letters, would happen. By then Hilda would be gone, and she would be older, even better able to take care of herself. If she had to leave here, so be it. She would go someplace like Denver or maybe all the way to California and continue to make a life for herself, but she hoped she would never have to go.
Bricked streets, comfortable homes, schools, churches, handy dry-goods stores, theaters, railroads…she would not enjoy such things for now, but maybe…maybe some day when the railroad came, Sommers Station would become a real town. Maybe then people would not just pass through, but rather stay and build businesses to serve the railroad and its passengers.
That dream was only a glimmer right now, but already she had been thinking of ways to make it reality, for she simply could not think about living anyplace else. She could not give up this wonderful taste of independence, and for that much she could thank Johnny…and a mysterious half-breed called Tall Bear.
“Welcome to Sommers Station,” she told the new arrivals, putting on a smile for them.
A cold late-October wind hit Tall Bear’s face with stinging sleet as he sat on a rise overlooking a small Indian camp. So far his scouting for the army had not been such a bad job. It had led to a few peace talks. But he still felt uneasy about finding these camps for captains and lieutenants who had little understanding of the Sioux, or any other Indian, for that matter. These new recruits were fresh from a victory back east and feeling cocky.
We’ve taken care of the Southern rebels. Now its time to take care of the Indians and get on with the growth of this country, one lieutenant had commented a few days ago. That was the same lieutenant, Nathan Balen, who had sent him out this morning to find the camp of a handful of Indians who’d been seen by a local farmer. The farmer had immediately panicked, considering the destruction the Cheyenne had been visiting on settlers all through Kansas, and Colorado and Nebraska. He had come running out to flag down Lieutenant Balen as he and his troops moved toward Fort Laramie, telling him he’d “better get after those renegades and give them what for!” The farmer had been very excited, obviously terrified, and Tall Bear had been ordered to find the tracks of the wandering band of Indians and trace them to their camp.
Tall Bear had no doubt the camp he was watching now was simply a band of Cheyenne trying to find small game for food. It was true the Cheyenne had been on the rampage ever since the Chivington massacre the year before in Colorado. He could see the reasons for terror and hatred on both sides, and that was what tore at his heart.
Maybe Jess had been right to advise him to take this job. Maybe he had no choice but to live between both worlds. For now, this was the best way to do that. He pulled his hat farther down his forehead to try to keep some of the rain out of his face. The Indians below could not see him. He could just leave and not tell Lieutenant Balen he’d found them. Still, peace could begin with these few Indians. If Balen, with Tall Bear’s help in interpreting, could convince these Cheyenne to go back to their reservation farther south, maybe more would comply and lives would be saved.
That was supposed to be the army’s purpose, although Tall Bear was not so sure all army leaders meant only peace. Some, he had no doubt, had come out there to make a name for themselves, and he suspected Balen, a rather arrogant man, was one of them. There were some officers he respected, and some he did not. He did not respect Balen. He had scouted for the man only two weeks now, had not seen him in action, but there was just something about his dark eyes, the scathing way he sometimes looked at Tall Bear, that made Tall Bear distrust the man.
He turned his horse and headed back to the army camp eight miles south. He’d taken this job. Now he had to perform it to the best of his abilities. His father would want that. He would report what he’d found and hope some good would come of it. He hunkered down into his slicker and made his way over undulating hills to Balen’s camp, miserably wet and cold by the time he reached it two hours later. By then sleet had turned to snow in an early freak storm. Tall Bear had no doubt the weather would change again and warm a little before true winter set in. This was just Grandfather Sky’s way of warning the little people who walked the earth that the long days of cold were coming.
It was not even noon yet when Tall Bear reported to Balen, a short, wiry man who had to look up at him. “I have found the Cheyenne camp, sir. I can go speak to their leader first, tell them it is best if they go back to the reservation. We could give them soldier escort so that whites would not be afraid and shoot at them and make more trouble.”
Balen frowned, stroking a thin mustache, and Tall Bear thought how everything about the man was thin, his dull-brown hair, his bony cheeks, his sharp nose. “I believe I am the one giving the orders here, Tall Bear. A soldier escort all the way down to southern Kansas is out of the question. We will round up the scoundrels and take them to Fort Laramie, where some, no doubt, will be imprisoned or even hanged for killing those settlers we found a few miles back.”
“You do not know that it was these Indians. Let me talk to them first, and I will know.”
Balen snickered. “You really think they would tell the truth?”
Tall Bear bristled. “Neither the Cheyenne nor the Sioux lie about anything.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm. So if they admit they killed those settlers, then you, too, would tell me the truth about that. You wouldn’t cover for them, right?”
Tall Bear’s hands moved into fists. “There is no use in having me scout for you if you are not going to believe what I say.”
Balen studied Tall Bear’s eyes, never able to quite trust a savage, not after seeing what some of them were capable of doing. He had even less trust for a half-breed. “I suppose that’s true.” He sighed, sitting down on a barrel behind a crude table inside his tent. “Do you think they’re a war party?”
“No. There are women cleaning skins and smoking meat. The horses are not painted for war, and the men were sitting around campfires. I think it is a hunting party of southern Cheyenne who have strayed too far. If they were warriors, there would not be so many women along.”
“Well, maybe they’re just trying to fool us. We will ride in before nightfall and take them.”
What a fool the man was, Tall Bear thought. “I ask again that you let me go first
and talk to them. There is no need to risk loss of life.”
Balen—too young, Tall Bear thought, to be an officer making such decisions—picked up a pipe and tamped out old ashes. “They don’t seem too concerned about taking white lives without warning or reason,” he answered. “Tit for tat, Tall Bear. Just remember that your job is to find them, my job is to decide what to do with them.” He shoved the pipe into a pocket. “Prepare to ride back out with us.” He rose, pulled on a heavy woolen army coat, and donned a wool cap. “We’ll leave in just a few minutes.”
Tall Bear shook his head after Balen left. He ducked back outside, watching with disgust as Balen shouted orders above the wind to the men to arm themselves for possible battle.
Tall Bear could hardly believe what he was seeing and hearing. Tall Bear realized now that Lieutenant Balen was hot for a fight and saw this as an opportunity to score a “victory” for his career. He was fresh from another war, a war that was over now, which meant he had to find a new way to show his supposed courage and skill.
Tall Bear bent his head into the wind and snow and walked to a field where he kept a second horse, another Appaloosa, this one with black tail and feet and mane. The gray one he had ridden that day was worn out from the long ride. He would leave the first one there to graze and rest. He led the fresh horse to where he had tied his first mount, pleased with the beauty and swiftness of both horses. He could control them with just a touch of his feet and legs, while his hands were free to hold a rifle. Always before he’d used them that way in making war against the Crow, or against white settlers. Now he would be riding against the Cheyenne, close allies of the Sioux. It seemed he would never truly belong anywhere.
He took a fresh, dry blanket from inside the tent he’d pitched for himself and threw it over the back of the fresh mount, then changed his other gear over and leaped onto the Appaloosa’s back, glad he’d chosen to wear his warmer, knee-high winter moccasins that morning. The fur was turned inward to act as a cozy lining. He suspected they were much warmer than the hard leather boots the soldiers wore.
He watched silently as men scurried everywhere, most of them behaving as though they were going after five hundred armed warriors. It would almost be comical if it weren’t so sad. Quickly the troops were ready, thirty of them. Tall Bear guessed there had been perhaps fifteen to twenty Indian men in the camp he’d seen, another twenty or so women and children.
Balen sat straight and cocky on a large white gelding. The man liked to ride a white horse because it made him stand out from the others. Tall Bear rode up beside him. “I remind you, Lieutenant, that I do not believe that is a war party camped ahead. There is no need for so many men or to get them ready for a fight.”
“Where Indians are concerned, we have to be always ready for a fight, Tall Bear. You certainly should know that. In fact, I’m not so sure I should trust you. I don’t believe it’s right having Indians scout against Indians. You’d better not be leading us into some kind of trap. That scout Jess Willett, up at Laramie, swears by you, but I think he’s a fool to trust you. I didn’t want you assigned to my mission, but now that I’ve got you, I guess I have to rely on what you tell me.”
“Then you should listen when I tell you to approach the camp peacefully.”
“Red Cloud and his Sioux have closed practically every fort along the Bozeman, Tall Bear. And the southern Cheyenne have been raiding and murdering all through this territory because of Sand Creek! I don’t need to hear talk about peace. I’m not going to let this bunch slip through my hands and go on to kill more innocent settlers—not when I’m up for a promotion. Lead the way, Tall Bear, and remember: if you betray these soldiers, you’ll hang!”
Tall Bear’s horse turned in a circle, seeming to sense his master’s anger. He headed north, and a column of men fell into place behind him and followed. Tall Bear wished Jess were there to help him reason with Balen. Jess was one of those white men who would know how to handle the situation.
For two hours they rode over rolling hills through an ever-stiffening wind, the sound of horses’ hooves muffled by the fresh snowfall. They crested the hill that overlooked the Indian camp, and Tall Bear drew his horse to a halt. Below them smoke curled lazily from a few tepees, women wrapped in blankets hung meat over smoky fires, a few children ran and played in the snow.
“Do you see?” he told Balen. “They are not a war party. I will ride down and ask them to give up their arms peacefully. We can at least escort them to Laramie and make arrangements there to send them back south.”
“Why do I have to keep reminding you that I make the decisions, Tall Bear—not you?” Balen spoke through a woolen scarf he had tied around his nose and mouth because of the cold. To Tall Bear’s surprise and anger the man pulled out his sword. At about that same time one of the women below spotted the soldiers and gave out a cry of warning. Warriors emerged from tepees, many without their outer fur coats and other warm clothing, and Tall Bear knew they were warning the women to take the children and run for cover.
The next few minutes were moments of horror for Tall Bear. Balen ordered his men to charge. Thirty soldiers thundered down on the small camp, some with swords drawn. Two fell from their horses when a few of the warriors, though completely unprepared, managed to get to their weapons and take rifle shots at them. But soon the soldiers were shooting back in full force. Women and children fell. Tall Bear saw one soldier run a sword through a small boy, and he thought of Running Fox.
Where was his place in all of this, he wondered. He remained behind, refusing to take part in the senseless slaughter. If Lieutenant Balen could do this once, he could do it again. The man did not deserve to live. Tall Bear’s hatred for such men welled into uncontrollable rage, and he pulled his rifle from its boot.
He raised the weapon and aimed.
“Tit for tat, Lieutenant,” he muttered. Amid all the gunfire below, his own gunshot would not be noticed. But before he squeezed the trigger, Balen slumped in his saddle. Someone else’s bullet had put him down.
With great satisfaction Tall Bear watched Balen fall from his horse. He turned his own horse, feeling no pity, wishing only that he could have been the one to pull the trigger. He headed back to base camp, where he would gather his things and his second mount and leave. He was through scouting for the army.
Chapter Fifteen
Faith saw someone approaching the station on horseback as she trudged through snow past her knees. It was April, and as often happened in those parts, a freak snowstorm had blown in off the mountains. She took comfort in the thought that this time of year snow didn’t usually stay on the ground for long. And even with snow this deep it was possible for a stage to get through. Little Johnny, a year old already, was still sleeping soundly. Faith liked the quiet mornings, used them for prayer and to get chores done, which this morning meant raking out horse stalls.
She walked into the shed, shooing out eight sturdy horses. She’d been there almost two years already—had managed through two long, hard winters—and still she loved it. The year was 1866, the Civil War was over. There was more talk now of a transcontinental railroad, which would bring new settlers, people displaced because of the war. Her dream of building Sommers Station into a town was beginning to take on real possibilities.
She saw that the approaching figure was a heavyset man in buckskins. The rising sun was making the snow so bright that Faith had trouble seeing the man clearly. He was probably a scout or mountain man or drifting prospector come to see if he could get a little food and perhaps sleep the night in the shed. There had been plenty of men like that come through, and all had been respectful and paid their way. Still, she was always wary of strangers and never trusted anyone completely. Doors and windows were closed and bolted at night, and she and Hilda always kept rifles loaded, although they were hung in brackets high on a wall so Johnny could not touch them.
The horses trotted briskly into a fenced corral, and she realized she would have to spread some feed in the t
roughs for them. She took up a rake and raked out a stall. Later maybe she would have time to play with Johnny in the snow—it would be fun watching him try to stand up in it. She smiled at the thought, ignoring the muffled sound of the horse and rider’s arrival. She expected they’d go into the station first, so she paid no heed and raked out a second stall, stopping only when she heard the door creak open.
She turned. To her horror the face she was looking into was that of Cletus Brown. Both of them stood frozen in place, Clete apparently as surprised to see her as she was to see him. She gripped the rake tightly, as his expression changed to anger, to hatred.
“You!” Clete snarled. “It’s you!”
Faith could hardly breathe, could hardly find her voice. “What—what are you doing here! How did you get here?”
“You mean what am I doing alive, don’t you?”
She stared at him in panic, remembering that her rifle was inside the depot. “What are you doing alive?”
“Your little popgun wasn’t powerful enough for a man like me, you little wench,” he snarled. “Oh, it put me down for a while, and I damn well suffered. Indians found and helped me. And all the while I was recoverin’, I was thinkin’ on how I’d get you for what you did! But by the time I was up and about, your tracks were gone. I figured you’d died tryin’ to get help, or maybe you was well on your way with some wagon train to California. Either way, I never thought I’d see you again.”
He looked around, his eyes glittering with something Faith could not quite read. Glee? Anticipation? Revenge? Oh, most surely revenge! She had put four bullets into his chest and left him for dead, and he damn well had deserved it. She told herself to stay calm, think clearly.
“How’d you end up at this place?” Clete noticed the rake in her hand and the pile of hay and manure at her feet. “Rakin’ out horse stalls! You some station manager’s wife now? Is there a man around here? A driver, maybe?”
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